


Have Your Cake (and Eat It Too)

by GoldenTruth813, Mzuul



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday Smut, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Digital Art, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fic and Art, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry's Birthday, Implied Switching, Light Bondage, Living Together, M/M, NSFW Art, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Hogwarts, Rimming, art and fic collab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-18 13:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15486417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mzuul/pseuds/Mzuul
Summary: Draco gives Harry a birthday present he will never forget.





	Have Your Cake (and Eat It Too)

**Author's Note:**

> This was such a fun collab to do with Mzuul. Her art was inspiring! All the thanks to aibidil for the beta! <3

[](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/440679979236327428/473681485598162955/image.jpg)

“Draco?” Harry calls, stepping out of the Floo. 

The living room is unusually dark, even for this time of night, and not even any residual slivers of moonlight are falling into the room. Harry slides his wand out of his robe pocket to lock the Floo behind him before dropping the wand onto the mantel; he pulls off his Auror robes and tosses them onto the back of the sofa. Draco will lecture him tomorrow about it, but Harry doesn’t care. It’s been the longest fucking day in history and all he wants is to go to bed and sleep. Well, and maybe a quick handjob first, if Draco’s awake and not pissy at him for getting home so late.

The flat is, not surprisingly, very quiet as he walks down the unlit corridor to their bedroom. He’s pretty sure Draco must be asleep, and he wouldn’t blame him for it. It’s a quarter after eleven and Harry was supposed to have been home hours ago to celebrate his birthday. Not that Harry cared all that much that it was his birthday. He’d never cared, and neither had anyone else. But this was his first birthday since he and Draco had gotten together seven months ago during their eighth year and, despite Harry’s insistence that Harry didn’t need anything for his birthday this year, Draco seemed adamant that they should celebrate. 

In Harry’s opinion, the party that Draco had thrown over the weekend had been more than enough. It’d been Quidditch themed and Harry had just about died of shock when he’d Flooed into their Flat on Saturday night after being set on a wild goose chase to find a very specific wine Draco suddenly had to have, to find that the entire flat looked like a jar of fairy dust had exploded. There was glitter everywhere, twinkling fairy lights strung up in the living room and balloons and fluttering Snitches everywhere, along with the largest cake Harry had ever seen sitting in the kitchen—complete with a small, apparently edible, replica of Harry on a broom flying circles around the top of the cake with a smile on his face and the Snitch in his hand. It was completely ridiculous and over the top and somehow not as unexpected as it should’ve been, considering it was Draco, who didn’t do anything by halves. 

Something small and childish had taken hold of Harry’s heart and he’d nearly tackled Draco to the floor in his excitement—a rush of emotion he couldn’t articulate overwhelming him—kissing Draco with abandon and laughing. Sure, Harry didn’t need a party and sure he didn’t need a cake big enough to feed a hundred people but fuck, it felt, well it felt kinda nice to feel special. Of course, Harry had been halfway to his knees, hands on Draco’s trousers before he realised they were not alone.

“Surprise,” Draco had whispered with a grin, tugging Harry back up to stand. Harry had blushed something mad, squeezing Draco’s hand as he noticed for the first time every single one of their friends and family crowded into their flat to celebrate. It’d been one of the best nights of Harry’s life and as everyone had sung Happy Birthday, all Harry could do was look at Draco and think _fuck_ —maybe this was what life was supposed to be like.

So yeah, as far as Harry was concerned, his birthday had been more than adequately celebrated. But that didn’t seem to be enough for Draco. He kept insisting that because today was Harry’s actual birthday it was reason to celebrate _again_. Harry didn’t know what Draco had planned, only that he’d received an owl at lunch urging him not to be late for his present. Of course, it wasn’t Harry’s fault that being the Boy Who Lived apparently counted for nothing as far as Robards was concerned and that instead of getting home at seven like he usually did, he was stumbling through the Floo now at nearly midnight—well past when Draco had expected him home. And while Harry was not-so-secretly pleased to be treated like everyone else in the Auror training program, just this once he sort of wished his request to leave training early had been granted.

Harry can’t contain his smile as he pushes the bedroom door open, anticipation building in his chest at the promise of finding Draco in _their_ bed. Even with the promise of sex off the table since Draco was likely asleep, Harry still relished in the fact that he had someone to come home to.

They’d had their own flat for less than a month and the novelty of living with someone else, of being with someone else who seemed to like everything about Harry, had not worn off. Truthfully, he wasn't sure it would ever wear off. He’d grown up feeling like a stranger in his own home. Or worse than a stranger, really. Aunt Petunia had been kind to strangers in her home because she’d wanted them to think well of her and Uncle Vernon. But Harry had never been treated kindly. He’d grown up thinking that home was the place you wanted to escape, not come back to. Hogwarts had felt more like a real home than Little Whinging ever had, but even there his memories felt tainted by death and inadequacies and pain. He’d spent his entire eighth year trying to get over them, to move on, and while he’d found a lot of healing, what he’d ultimately realised was that Hogwarts wasn't his home. It’d been an overwhelmingly difficult realisation, the idea that he’d never had a home. Except then had come Draco. Becoming friends with him, becoming boyfriends, had been the most unexpected and life-altering thing Harry could have imagined. Draco had changed, in all the ways that mattered, while retaining the best bits of himself—his biting tongue, his fierce competitiveness, his intelligence, his flair for the dramatic—and fuck it all if Harry didn't like it. 

It’d been a confusing time for Harry when he had realised that in all the Seekers’ games they played when neither of them could sleep at night, the thing he wanted to catch most was not the tiny glittering ball but the boy on the other broom. Of course to his surprise and delight Draco seemed to feel the same, and somehow they’d made the transition from unlikely friends to unlikely boyfriends without many words. They still drove each other nuts and bickered and challenged each other on and off the pitch, and Merlin, Harry wouldn’t have had it any other way. After months of finding it hard to remember why he’d chosen to come back to Hogwarts, Draco reminded him of what it was like to _live_.

Harry had been more than a bit worried that once they left Hogwarts whatever it was between them might change, might fade away. He was not ignorant of what a large majority of the Wizarding world thought of their relationship, and while they were mostly protected from the negative scrutiny at Hogwarts, they wouldn’t be when they left. It was a lot of responsibility to be with Harry, and Harry was terrified Draco would realise this. When Draco had invited him to the lake to talk just a fortnight before they were due to leave, a heavy feeling had engulfed Harry as he prepared to lose the one person he never would’ve dreamed would become so important to him. Harry’d been so certain of what Draco was going to say he’d not listened properly and it had taken Draco a good twenty minutes and a fairly gentle Stinging Hex to his arse to get Harry to grasp that Draco was not breaking up with him—he was asking Harry to move in with him. 

That’d been six weeks ago and things had been, well, not perfect because they were still nineteen-year-olds learning to live with someone else for the first time. There was a bit of a learning curve to figure out who would do the cooking and shopping and getting used to the lack of house-elves to do the washing up and tidying. But they were doing alright, figuring things out side by side and Harry was more than happy to experience some bumps along the way, so long as they were experiencing them together.

So yeah, most nights Harry came home from Auror training feeling a bit like it was Christmas morning. He didn’t care that most nights they ate takeaway instead of a home-cooked meal or that the laundry bin was overwhelming, because they were eating takeaway with their feet entwined on _their_ sofa and the laundry bin was overflowing with _their_ clothes and they woke up in the morning to eat breakfast together in _their_ flat and fuck, Harry liked it.

“Draco?” Harry queries, his hand still poised on the door as he takes in the empty made bed. The lamp in the corner is lit, illuminating the room in a soft glow and there’s a single wrapped gift sitting atop the duvet. 

Harry’s only made it three steps into the room before familiar hands are on his hips, Draco’s chin resting on his shoulder as Draco presses up behind him.

“Thought you’d never get home.”

Harry’s lingering tension melts away at the melodic tone of Draco’s familiar posh voice in his ear.

“Sorry, I tried to get home earlier but Robards insisted no one gets special treatment, not even on their birthday.”

“Mmm, yes, Happy Birthday, Harry,” Draco whispers, hands roaming over Harry’s chest as he kisses his neck.

“S’only my birthday for another half hour,” Harry mumbles as his eyes fall shut.

“I suppose we better make it count then,” Draco says, pulling away from Harry. 

Harry has only a second to wonder what he’s doing before Draco whispers a spell he doesn’t understand and the long string of satiny gold ribbon unwinds itself from the gift in the middle of the bed and comes sailing across the room directly into Draco’s open hand.

“What’re you doing?” Harry croaks, the lust pooling in his belly at war with his confusion at why Draco looks so fucking pleased with himself about a piece of ribbon. “Do I get to open my present now, then?” Harry asks.

Draco smirks, leaning in to whisper, “Sort of. I was sort of hoping to unwrap you first.”

Harry’s face flushes at Draco’s words. Oh. _Oh._ Draco’s gaze is intense, unyielding, as he watches Harry. 

“Will you let me?” Draco asks, dragging the tips of the ribbon over the inside of Harry’s wrist. 

Harry shudders, a strange buzzing sensation filling his ears as he swallows down the desire to moan. Fuck. They’d talked about this once, the night they’d first moved in. They’d celebrated their new flat by fucking on the floor of the still empty living room, following it up with a bottle of wine and Harry’s favourite Chinese takeaway. Afterwards Draco had temporarily transfigured a chair into a bed, where they’d collapsed together drunk and content. Harry’d been so happy, so relaxed, that when Draco asked what he wanted in their new flat, his hands trailing up and down Harry’s bare back, instead of saying something normal like a new sofa or a real bed Harry had mumbled, “Want you to tie me up and rim me.”

Draco’s hands had stilled, his lips on Harry’s forehead as he’d whispered, “Oh.”

Harry hadn’t had time to think it over Draco’s reaction much though, because he was so sleepy, body relaxed and heavy and he’d fallen into an easy sleep with his face shoved into Draco’s neck. The next morning, Harry’s face had flushed with embarrassment as he remembered what he’d said, but he’d found his courage failing as he gulped down his tea and the desire to ask Draco if he remembered. Harry had felt on edge for days, worried he’d asked for too much, but Draco didn’t mention it so neither did Harry. It’d been nearly a month now and Harry had almost let himself believe it was forgotten. Except that apparently Draco has not forgotten, and fuck that shouldn’t excite Harry the way it does.

“Is that a yes?” Draco asks, his hand moving down to Harry’s trousers to massage Harry’s already achingly hard cock. Draco knows he wants this, knows from Harry’s previous confession and his obvious arousal that he likes the idea, but still he’s asking, wanting only what Harry feels prepared to give, and fuck that makes Harry even harder—to come face to face with the depth of Draco’s desire to not only please Harry, but to make him comfortable.

“Yes, fuck, yes,” Harry answers, his face hot and his ears ringing. His embarrassment at the verbal admittance of his desire is only tempered by the intoxicating realisation that Draco is clearly as turned on by the idea as Harry is, if the hard length pressed into the side of his thigh is any indication.

“Get on the bed, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice, reaching back and grabbing ahold of his t-shirt and yanking it off. His glasses fall to the floor too, but Harry doesn’t care; he kicks his shoes off, ignoring the thud they make as they hit the far wall.

“Eager?” Draco laughs, but the breathlessness in his voice gives away his own reaction.

“Fuck you,” Harry says with a smile, shoving his boxers and trousers to the floor and kicking them off. They fly across the room, landing in a pile a few feet from the laundry bin.

“I was hoping to fuck you, actually,” Draco says, removing his own clothing in a far more dignified but no less impatient manner.

“That’s...that’s good too, yeah,” Harry breathes, his knees hitting the bed as he crawls back towards the pillows, placing the present on the floor. He didn’t bother trying to hide his excitement. 

Harry is only nineteen for fuck’s sake, and any sex with Draco is good sex as far as Harry is concerned. He can still recall with clarity the first time back at Hogwarts when Draco had hesitantly asked if maybe he could fuck Harry, as if Harry might say no. All the breath had left Harry at that, a wave of lust crashing over him at the knowledge of how much Draco wanted him. They’d done a lot of fucking before that, hands and mouths and thighs, but that’d been the first time they’d done _that_ and while it had hurt a bit, it’d been fucking fantastic. Harry’d fucked Draco after that, too. Quite often in fact. Draco had asked him once weeks after they’d started having that kind of sex if Harry had a preference, to which Harry had laughed, shoving his hand down the back of Draco’s trousers to squeeze his arse and whisper, _“I like it all with you”_ and Merlin did he. Honestly, Harry wasn’t particular. So long as he and Draco were naked, he was pretty fucking happy. In fact, he could recall a few pretty incredible orgasms when they weren’t even naked, so yeah, as long as he was with Draco anything was good for him. 

But this, the idea of Draco rimming him, has Harry’s magic vibrating because it is something they haven’t done yet, either of them, though goodness knows Harry has wanted too. He’s just never had the courage to ask again, not after his first drunken confession.

“Turn over,” Draco says, and while Harry thinks Draco probably means it to sound confident, it sounds questioning, hesitant, and it bolsters Harry’s confidence to know he’s not the only one feeling off balance and unsure.

He darts forward, fingers tangling in the back of Draco’s hair as he joins their lips for one quick kiss, hoping to convey in action what he can’t manage to share with words. Draco shudders into the kiss, his eyes remaining shut seconds longer than Harry’s. When he opens them again Harry gives him a crooked grin before rolling onto his stomach, reaching for a pillow and pulling it to his chest to bury his face in as he lifts his hips. He feels exposed and wanton and it’s as terrifying as it is heady.

“Fuck,” Draco breathes, cool fingers ghosting down Harry’s spine. Harry arches his back reflexively, spreading his legs wider and lifting his hips up.

Draco’s fingers are achingly familiar as they move across his back to anchor themselves at his hips, Draco’s thumbs grazing across the dimples above his arse for long seconds before Draco’s hands move lower, spreading him open and for one brief moment Harry quite literally forgets how to breathe. It’s only Draco—Draco, who knows every part of Harry’s body and his heart, who had his cock up Harry’s arse just two days ago. But this feels different somehow, intimate in a different way, and the idea that Draco’s mouth—which Harry knows from experience is capable of as much viciousness as kindness—is about to be on his arse has Harry close to tears, and Draco’s not even touched him _there_ yet. 

Draco murmurs a wandless cleaning charm that Harry is all too familiar with, though it's usually used before a cock or fingers are going up Harry’s arse, and not a mouth. 

Harry’s not sure why the idea of Draco’s tongue near his hole makes his cock hard enough to hurt, why his hands are clenched on the pillow so tightly he’s afraid he might actually rip it in half if he moves, or why it feels almost like the first time all over again. He just knows he wants this, wants Draco, in ways that quite honestly terrify him. It’s not just the act of Draco’s tongue in one of his most private places, but the understanding of the implicit trust it implies for both of them. And that’s the crux of it, really, Harry realises as Draco’s warm breath ghosts along his crack. He trusts Draco, with everything he is. He trusts Draco to know his limits, to take care of him, to not hurt him. He trusts him in a way he’s never trusted anyone except Ron and Hermione, and somehow this trust seems different, seems more.

The first swipe of Draco’s tongue isn’t even on his hole, but rather along the freckle of his right arse cheek that he can’t see but which he knows Draco is particularly fond for. But still it’s Draco’s mouth. Draco’s mouth on his arse. Draco’s mouth getting closer and closer to a place it's never been.

“Please,” Harry groans, voice muffled by the pillow. He can’t believe he’s begging already, but fuck it all, he’s never had much self-control where Draco is involved. It was silly to think he'd have any now.

“Merlin, you really like this, don't you?”

Harry's cognisant enough to snort at that, turning his head to the side, hoping Draco can't see the small bit of drool pooling at the corner of his mouth that ends up on the pillow. “What tipped you off, genius?”

“I'm clearly not doing my job if you can still be a sarcastic pain in the arse.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something else, but Draco pinches his arse, pulling the cheeks apart even wider and there's a rush of cool night air against his warm skin before Draco’s tongue drags across the puckered skin of his hole and all that escapes Harry’s lips is a guttural moan as his brain short circuits. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Draco’s grip tightens, the sharp nails of his fingers digging into the tender flesh of Harry’s arse. There will be marks there tomorrow and while Harry won't be able to see them, the knowledge of their existence is enough to make him shudder.

Draco’s tongue disappears and Harry whimpers at the loss but it's back almost immediately, wetter than before as Draco swirls it around his hole impossibly slow, the tip of it dragging so slow Harry feels acutely aware of every single furrow and ripple. 

It's too much, the slurping sounds of pleasure Draco makes ringing in his ears like a song he never wants to end. Harry's thought if he was ever lucky enough that Draco wanted to try this, it might be awkward or hesitant. But it's neither, and Draco is kissing and licking and holding nothing back.

“Fucking fuck,” Harry whines, yanking the pillow out from under him and throwing it onto the floor, his body flushed and sweaty and the pillow stifling hot and soaked with drool. The sheets beneath his face are crisp and cool and he rubs his forehead into them, trying to get the sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes as he rolls his back and thrusts back, desperate for more something, more anything. His cock is dripping precome on the bed, hanging hard and heavy between his legs and barely brushing up against the satin duvet with every rolling movement of his hips as Draco continues to lick, lick, lick and Harry isn't sure he’s ever been this hard. It feels so good his arms and legs tingle, his stomach flutters, and the desperate sounds falling from his mouth echo in his ears as if they've fallen from someone else's mouth. 

“More please, _fuck_ , Draco,” Harry whimpers, not caring how desperate he probably sounds. 

Draco pulls back, dropping his forehead against Harry’s lower back and panting heavily as he strokes his hands almost reverently over the spots he was just holding onto for dear life.

“Harry,” Draco says and it's so completely unguarded, his voice shaky and laced with arousal. 

“Please,” Harry begs, braving a glance over his shoulders at Draco. Draco’s hair is a mess, his face flushed red and his lips swollen and spit soaked. He looks wrecked and Harry can only imagine what he looks like in return.

Draco chokes out a sound that Harry’s never heard him make before, something desperate and raw and before he can really process what it means, Draco has his shoulders at the backs of Harry’s thighs as he slides his strong arms under him and yanks Harry up with no warning. Harry’s face falls gracelessly onto the mattress, an undignified grunt falling from his mouth as Draco buries his face into Harry's arse and begins to press his tongue inside of Harry. 

Harry’s mouth falls opens in a silent scream, his voice seemingly gone along with his coherency as gasps for air. It’s ridiculous, it shouldn’t feel this good, shouldn’t feel as if he’s being taken apart and put together as he claws at the sheets and moans, unable to do anything else. 

It’s not like other parts of Draco’s body haven’t been inside of Harry’s body before, and often, but Draco’s tongue seems indescribably different, almost dirty and shockingly intimate in ways Harry can barely comprehend. And the noises, _fuck_ the noises. Draco Malfoy, usually mouthy to everyone everywhere in his daily life is surprisingly quiet in bed. Except, apparently, for now. Because now Draco is making sounds that make Harry want to scream himself, make him feel frantically wild as if he’s on the precipice of falling apart. Draco’s tongue is relentless, in and out, in and out, over and over until the spit is slipping down Harry’s trembling thighs.

“Draco, I’m gonna—”

“Not...yet,” Draco gasps out in between pants, moving back and letting Harry’s knees fall back to the bed. “Want to fuck you.”

If Harry possessed more of his brain at that moment he’d remind Draco that having his tongue up Harry’s arse probably counted as fucking, but as it was, the simple act of getting his head to move up and down in agreement was about all Harry could manage.

It’s only as Harry is rolling onto his back that he finds the discarded piece of ribbon forgotten on the rumpled bed. He holds it up, a question in his eyes.

Draco’s chest heaves as he takes one long, slow breath and Harry can see him visibly trying to regain his control. “If you still want,” Draco says, twining the ribbon around his finger and moving to straddle Harry’s waist.

Harry doesn’t trust himself to speak so he nods his head, the fringe falling into his eyes. He tries to blow it off, but his forehead is too sweaty and it sticks, but Draco’s fingers are there before Harry’s, impossibly gentle as he brushes the hair to the side.

Harry darts up to steal a kiss, feeling Draco’s lips turn up in a smile against his own but before he can tangle his hands in Draco’s hair, Draco shakes his head and moves Harry’s hands to his stomach. 

“Keep them here.” Draco’s request is quiet and even and Harry doesn’t even contemplate disobeying. The look of pleasure that crosses Draco’s face at his compliance makes lust pool in Harry’s cock. Fuck, but Draco is handsome, cold as ice and powerful, but in this moment there’s something open about him that Harry knows he rarely shares with anyone else.

Draco leans over Harry’s body, his cock leaking against Harry’s thigh as he grabs his wand, flicking it at the ribbon. Harry watches, entranced, as it swirls in the air before wrapping itself around each of Harry’s wrists and then ties itself in an elegant bow. Harry knows he could break the ribbon if he pulled hard enough, but he doesn’t want to. There’s something powerful about the idea of Draco taking this small amount of control from him, of knowing Draco wants this—wants him.

Harry knows they’ll have to talk about it eventually, about Harry’s inability to believe Draco won’t leave him. He knows it's not normal to wake up in the dead of night in a sweat with nightmares, knows it's not normal to keep a part of himself hidden lest Draco become overwhelmed with the depth of Harry’s insecurities. But here, now, in this moment, Harry has never felt more wanted by Draco, has never felt more safe or secure in their relationship and he thinks if he lets himself stop to think about it, the tears might fall from eyes as freely as the words he’s been too afraid to say.

But Harry doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to be too much, so instead he moves his tied up hands to Draco’s chest and shoves him back on the bed. Draco tips over with a grunt, a curious look on his face as Harry wandlessly casts a preparation and lubrication spell.

“Fuck you, you absolute show off,” Draco laughs, his voice rife with affection as his fingers ghost down Harry’s quivering stomach to rest atop his thigh. The tip of his thumb brushes the tip of Harry’s cock and Harry bites back a moan.

“That was the idea, yeah,” Harry says a bit more breathlessly than he means to and before Draco can ask what he’s doing, Harry pushes Draco onto the bed and straddles his waist, slowly lowering himself down onto Draco’s cock.

“Fuck, Harry,” Draco gasps out, his hands clawing at Harry’s thighs as Harry seats himself on Draco’s cock. 

“My birthday. I get what I want today,” Harry insists, voice impossibly quiet as he uses his thighs to lift himself up just an inch or two and then lower himself again. He repeats the movement, taking Draco’s cock in small, shallow thrusts until the beads of sweat begin to pool at the centre of Draco’s chest. 

“I’ll give you what you want every day, not just today,” Draco says, fingering the ribbon at Harry’s wrists.

Something in Harry breaks then, something small and lonely that’s been waiting to belong, as he moves in earnest, raising himself up all the way before slamming himself back down. Draco groans, his fingers once again holding onto Harry’s thighs firmly, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face as they move together a haze of sweaty skin on skin and moans mingling together until Harry’s not sure where he begins and Draco ends.

“Harry, oh Harry,” Draco murmurs, his hands moving to wrap around Harry’s neglected cock and this time Harry does let out a scream, his head thrown back as he comes after just two strokes.

Draco curses, wrapping his arms around Harry and pulling him down to his chest as he plants his feet on the bed and lifts his hips in one, two, three forceful thrusts and then he’s coming, his chest heaving as he shudders into Harry’s neck.

“Fucking hell, Draco,” Harry groans moments later, rolling off of Draco and collapsing onto the bed with a groan as Draco’s softened cock slips out of him. He’s sticky and sweaty and they definitely need a shower, but his body is relaxed and heavy and fuck, it’s hard to breathe when he looks at Draco, hard to remember he’s supposed to be keeping some of himself back when all he wants to do is give him everything.

“I told you I’d make it your best birthday ever,” Draco says, looking smug. Harry supposes at least this time Draco has good reason.

Harry groans, flexing his wrists, the stiffness beginning to set in.

Draco makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat, grabbing his discarded wand and spelling away the ribbon before his hands are on Harry’s wrists, massaging the tender inside before lifting them up to press a soft kiss to each one of his pulse points.

Harry closes his eyes to stop the onslaught of emotions, but when he opens them Draco is still right there, looking utterly wrecked and happy and Harry knows he’s just as wrecked, if not on the outside, then on the inside. Though he strongly suspects his physical state at the moment reflects his emotional one as well.

“Yeah,” he whispers, reaching out to rest his hand on Draco’s hip. “Yeah, it was.”

 _I love you,_ Harry thinks, so much he can barely breathe.

“Good. That’s...that’s really good,” Draco answers, but his eyes say more. His eyes say, _Me too, Harry, me too._

So yeah, maybe they can’t say the words out loud, not yet. But he knows now without any shred of doubt that it’s true, and Draco knows it too, and maybe in the end that’s all that matters.

Besides, if Harry has it his way, he and Draco have still got a lifetime of birthdays left together; a lifetime of moments to say I love you, a lifetime of memories to make.

So yeah, this is definitely Harry’s best birthday yet. But it won’t be the best ever, not by a long shot.

**Author's Note:**

> Find [Goldentruth813](http://goldentruth813.tumblr.com/) & [Mzuul](https://mzuul.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are love.


End file.
